One Hundred Middle-earth Snapshots
by Ellethiriel
Summary: A collection of one hundred Middle-earth drabbles. From Men to Dwarves, Hobbits to Elves, they'll be about anything and everything in LotR, The Hobbit, or the Silmarillion. (Mainly the Silmarillion.) Based on NirCele's prompts - see her profile if you want to join the challenge. Might go up to T eventually for possible violence.
1. Language Lesson

**I have finally begun NirCele's drabble challenge! These drabbles will be for LotR, Hobbit, and Silmarillion.**

 **First up is a Silmarillion drabble about** **Niëno** **r. If you haven't read the Silmarillion (and you definitely should!), just know that the young woman who is the subject of this one has total amnesia (as in, she doesn't even know how to talk). She was rescued by some villagers and has just recovered from an illness that she contracted just before being rescued. The guy who rescued her gave her the name Niniel ("tear-maiden").**

 **(I haven't read the Sil in several months, so please tell me of any canon errors you might find, and I'll do my best to correct them.)**

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 **#48: Language Lesson (** **Niënor** **)**

She knew that she must have spent many days there among those strangers before she was well enough to leave her bed. The morning she finally did was a golden one full of warm sunlight and light breezes. The family who had helped the lame man take care of her flitted back and forth, checking on her, seemingly not convinced she was really well. Finally they left her alone, and she preferred it that way.

She wandered outside, gazing with lifting spirits at the sun-dappled world around her. A small village surrounded her, and she sat down outside the hut on the lush grass, running her fingers through the soft sprigs, feeling their crisp coolness. Everything was new and strange here - the people, the surroundings, the simple homespun dress she was wearing.

Most frustratingly of the new and strange things, she barely understood any of the noises the others made, except for a few words. During her long recovery, she had listened to her caregivers and picked out a few words that were oft-repeated. _Níniel_ , she knew, meant her, and she thought _Brandir_ meant the kind lame man who mainly took care of her. _Turambar_ was the man who had rescued her and had frequently come to see how she was doing. And there were a few other words whose meanings she could hazily guess, but she wasn't sure of them. These people were so kind, and she only wished she could communicate with them.

She tucked her golden hair behind her ear to prevent the breeze from flicking it in her face. "Nin-i-el," she murmured to herself. "Níniel." Her voice sounded strange to her ears, she had used it so little.

"Níniel?" A girl several years younger had slipped outside without her noticing. Níniel looked up as the girl, smiling, seated herself next to her. The blonde maiden wondered briefly why she was there, but then decided that the girl just wanted to be outdoors.

A sudden inspiration struck her then. Cautiously, unsure of what exactly the strange green softness below her bare feet was made of, she plucked a blade of grass, holding it up for the girl to see. She shot her a questioning look, gesturing towards it.

For a second, the girl seemed puzzled, but then her face lit up. "Grass," she said, pointing. "Grass."

Finally she was getting somewhere! Níniel broke out into a wide smile. "G-grass," she repeated, feeling the unfamiliar word roll off her tongue. "Grass. Grass."

"Yes, grass," the girl said, smiling.

Happiness surged through Níniel, and she got up and laid her hand against the hut, glancing at the girl.

"House," the girl replied to the wordless question, getting up too and smiling at Niniel's obvious excitement.

"House," Níniel repeated. She paused, and after a moment laid her hand on her chest, asking, "Níniel?"

"Níniel," the girl said, nodding. She laid her hand on her own chest. "Maerwen."

"M-Maerwen," Niniel repeated, radiant with discovery. "Maerwen."


	2. Gems and Jewels

**Thanks so much for your support, guys! You don't know how happy your feedback makes me. :D Eight reviews already?! You guys are awesome!**

 **This particular drabble is about that brief scene in TBotFA with Bard and Thrandy. I read somewhere that the 'white gems' were something Thranduil had ordered for his wife, so that's what I've done in this.**

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 **#20: Gems and Jewels (Thranduil)**

"You will go to war over a handful of gems?" Bard's voice radiated disbelief as he stared at the Elvenking.

Astride his elk, Thranduil stiffened imperceptibly. A wisp of memory, sweet but painful, floated into his consciousness, one that he would almost rather forget but at the same time didn't want to ever let go...

 _Laughter. The swish of skirts. A flash of dark hair. The click of a small box being opened and the radiance of dozens of white gems sparkling from where they lay amid blue velvet. "Oh, Thranduil. dearest, thank you!"_

" _For our anniversary, Elarinya." A kiss._

" _They're beautiful!"_

" _Yes, aren't they? They were my mother's, but she left them behind when she sailed."_

 _He gazed down at her from over her shoulder, happy because she was. "I was going to have the Dwarves of Erebor set them into a necklace for you, but then I thought you might like to choose their arrangement yourself."_

 _She smiled in a way that seemed to outshine the glittering jewels before her. "I'll get to work on that right away." She sifted her hand through the diamonds and lesser crystals, and they fell from her fingers in a cascade of brilliance._

Mere weeks later, she was gone, stabbed through the heart on a northern battlefield as she defended a wounded Legolas from an Orc.

The gems were the heirlooms of his people and one of the last things she had touched and pored over. He had been determined to get them back, necklace finished or no, but Thror-curse him!–had grown greedy. The Dwarf Lord refused to yield them up, saying that the jewelry had taken his smiths far longer than expected and that more payment than originally specified was due. For all his pride, Thranduil gave the required pay, but Thror insisted that it still was not enough. In a rage which he concealed out of pride, Thranduil had left, vowing to reclaim his own even if he had to wait until the End.

Now, on this wintry day nearly two hundred years later, his chance had finally come to reclaim what was rightfully his.

All of this passed through his mind in a blink. Slowly he turned to face the Man, his face expressionless. Years of suppressing his emotions after his wife's death had made him cold and distant, a master of self-control. Aloud he said,

"The heirlooms of my people are not lightly forsaken."

 _You could not possibly understand just what that "handful of gems" means to me, mortal._

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 **Please review! :)**


	3. Plants

**Thank you to all of my readers! :)**

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 **#4: Plants**

Starlight twinkles overhead as it has for eons before she was born. The little elf-maid slips through the trees, giggling as her father laughs and searches for her.

By the stream she pauses, and peeks in to see the heavenly lights reflected shimmering back at her along with a shadowy, tremulous outline of her dark hair and round face. And then she hears her father's footsteps approaching as he calls her again, and she flits away, further into the forest.

For other creatures it might be too dark to see among the twilit trees, but not so for her. Not only is she an elf, but the blood of the divine also runs in her veins. She knows the forest as though it were part of her: its paths, its streams, its vibrant life.

In a clearing she stops suddenly. The whispers of the trees that she ever hears have grown louder. She stands still and listens, her royal blue dress swirling around her bare feet in a stray breeze. And then she sees something unlike anything else in the woodland she has known all her life. On the other side of the glade, there is a tree, and it is _walking_.

Awe falls upon her, but not fear. Slowly she approaches the creature, and it turns and looks at her. She stares into the liquid green-gold eyes and feels sure that it means her no harm. Wisdom of long years is reflected in those eyes, the kind of wisdom she sees in her mother's gaze, and she is captivated.

They stand there for a long, quiet moment, looking at one another, each sensing the spirit of the other. And then the elf-child hears her father approaching.

She calls to him, telling him to come and see the strange creature, and then she runs to meet him and eagerly tugs on his sleeve. But when they enter the clearing again, there is nothing there but the grass and the forest-whispers as the branches sigh in the breeze.

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 **This was inspired randomly a few weeks ago when I was rereading TTT and Treebeard said that he had walked in Neldoreth when the world was young. And it was really fun and easy to write after all of the difficult-to-write Fëanorion angst I've been working on. XD**

 **Please review! I love reviews with a passion (though doesn't everyone? :D).**


	4. Anatomy

**#42: Anatomy**

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"Why do you have only one hand?"

The question caught him off guard. Laying aside his quill, Maedhros brushed a loose strand of auburn hair behind his ear and turned. Elrond was standing next to the desk, gazing up at him with a half-shy, half-curious expression.

"Why do you ask, Elrond?" He was perplexed by the abrupt question. During the year the twins had been with him and Maglor, they had never gone out of their way to interact with him, but instead always clung to his brother. Deep down, he knew it had something to do with the circumstances of their... adoption, but he didn't know how to bridge the lack of trust between them and had long since given up.

"Um... well," Elrond answered hesitantly, avoiding eye contact, "me and Elros wanted to know, so we asked Maglor, but he wouldn't tell us, so then Elros made me ask you."

Maedhros raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Uh-huh." Elrond nodded, suddenly looking even more nervous.

Maedhros stared out the window and struggled for a moment to think of what to say to the young elfling. "Well... one had to be cut off."

Elrond's grey eyes grew wide. "Did it hurt?"

Maedhros gave a slightly bitter snort, but it wasn't directed at the boy. "Yes. But then it healed, and now it doesn't hurt anymore." It was a half-truth, for even after all those years he sometimes experienced painful twinges where the missing hand had been. Absently he ran a finger over the scarred stump, the skin pulled tight over the bone.

Elrond's gaze was drawn, and he stared at it for a moment before asking, "Will a new hand ever grow?"

The older elf gave a half-smile, looked up, and tousled Elrond's hair. "Well... maybe," he said lightly. Then, hearing something out in the corridor, he raised his voice. "Elros, I know you're listening. Don't be afraid to come in."

Shyly Elros slipped in through the half-open door and came and stood next to his twin, clasping his hands in front of him.

Elrond looked at him curiously and then faced Maedhros. "How did you know he was there?" he asked rather boldly, his attention diverted from his initial question. Maedhros surmised that their little chat had made him more comfortable, and the thought warmed him like nothing else had for years.

"Just a guess," he said, and winked. Elros grinned, twisting his still-clasped hands around, and Elrond gave his brother a mock-accusing look.

Anxious not to lose this opportunity of cementing their trust in him, Maedhros pushed his chair back and got to his feet. "Do you want to go find out what's for supper? Maybe we can even... sneak something from the kitchen."

"Alright," they chimed in unison, and Elros giggled. "Race you there!" he squealed to his twin, and took off with Elrond at his heels.

Maedhros followed more slowly, a smile hovering around his lips. Maybe this was finally the start of a friendship.

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 ***gasp* Yes, it's me already! I know, you were probably expecting another two-month gap between drabbles, but here I am! I hope you guys liked this one!**

 **Review, please? :)**


	5. Failed Attempt

**Thanks for all of your reviews! :)**

 **Elladan and Elrohir would be adults in this, though still youngish in elven terms, and I'm thinking of Arwen as the equivalent of eleven or twelve.**

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 **#67: Failed Attempt**

"Look over there," Elladan hissed, a smile twitching his lips.

Elrohir, sitting on a garden bench with his legs stretched out next to him and reading a heavy book resting in his lap, did not look up right away. "Whaaat?" he drawled absentmindedly, far too engrossed to spare a glance.

" _Look!_ " Elladan was perched on the bench arm closest to his brother, and he shoved him in the shoulder to punctuate his remark. Annoyed, Elrohir shoved him back, but then he actually looked up. Between a line of small trees he saw Arwen kneeling on a stone path next to a flowerbed, apparently absorbed in looking at the colorful display of blossoms- and Glorfindel was walking along the winding path in her direction. As the Vanya drew level with her, she seemed to become aware of him and scrambled to her feet.

Elladan was grinning. "I wonder what she's going to do. You know, she told us yesterday that she's so 'madly in love' with him and all."

"Mother said not to make fun of her!" Elrohir whispered back, but he was grinning too.

"I'm not _really_ making fun of her..." Elladan returned, but then he stopped talking and watched intently. Glorfindel and Arwen didn't seem to be aware that anyone else was within earshot.

"Hello, Glorfindel," Arwen said shyly.

"Hello," Glorfindel replied, smiling.

Arwen clasped her hands in front of her and rocked back and forth on her heels for a few seconds. "Um, it's a lovely day, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is," Glorfindel agreed sunnily. "I just came to tend my flowers." He indicated the flowerbed she had been kneeling by. Many of the Elves of Imladris had their own small garden plots, and Glorfindel was no exception.

"Oh, are these yours?" Arwen stepped out of the way. "Good. I was, um, just wondering about one of the plants. It looked rather... exotic." She twirled a strand of hair around her finger.

The twins stared. "She already knew that it's his flowerbed," Elrohir whispered.

Elladan gasped in horror. "Is she trying to flirt?"

"Well, she isn't doing a very good job of it." Elrohir smirked.

They turned their attention back to their sister and the other elf.

"Which plant are you wondering about?" Glorfindel was asking.

Arwen glanced quickly at the flowers and seemed to settle on one. "Um, that." She pointed. "What kind of flower is it?"

"That? That's a rose," he answered, a note of puzzlement in his voice.

"Oh, er, of course." Arwen blushed crimson with embarrassment. There was an awkward silence. "Well, that's all I wanted to know. I think I have some schoolwork left over, so I'd better go! Thank you!" She ran off, leaving a very perplexed Glorfindel and two brothers wracked with suppressed mirth.

"Well," Elrohir said philosophically after his initial merriment had subsided, "it seems our little sister is growing up."

Elladan was doubled over, still trying to smother his laughter in his sleeve.

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 **Reviews appreciated! :)**


	6. Murderer

**Lord Illyren, I unfortunately can't respond to you personally, but thank you for your review! :)**

 **Warning: this drabble qualifies as horror (but with an okay-ish ending), so... yeah.**

 **Quenya name list:**

 **Fëanáro = Fëanor**

 **Nelyafinwë/Nelyo = Maedhros**

 **Kanafinwë = Maglor**

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 **#88: Murderer**

I am on a ship. The salt spray permeates the air and stings my eyes and dampens my dark hair. Stars glimmer above in the velvet night, and all is quiet on the deck.

But where is everyone? I wander around, peering into the shadows. They're everywhere, those shadows, in the corners of the deck and even in places where starlight bathes everything in a pallid glow.

"Nelyafinwë?" I call. "Kanafinwë?" I name the rest of my sons, but receive no response.

 _Something is very wrong._

A whispery sound reaches my ears, so quiet it barely registers, and I turn. One of the shadows is moving.

"Who is there?" I demand, feeling a sudden stab of uncertainty. I reach for the knife that I've always kept at my hip of late, but I find it isn't there.

The shadow moves closer and seems to grow. It's blacker than night, and in spite of myself, I back away. "Who are you?"

There is no answer, but the shadow seems to take shape, gradually morphing into a person. Slowly I begin to discern features, and cold horror grips me. It is an elf, but where eyes should be there are empty sockets, dark and staring. Tears of blood are running down the face past pinched blue lips and down to a neck strangely tilted sideways and body drawn as though with pain.

A strangled cry escapes me, and then I am running, running, running away from that thing across the deck, which stretches whitely on before me. But I'm not reaching the end of it - indeed, I'm scarcely moving at all, though I'm running faster than I ever thought possible. Exhausted, I finally crash to the ground, and without any discernible movement the wraith slowly approaches.

"What do you want?" I cry desperately.

"You are a murderer, Fëanáro."

The words are emanating from the depths of this being, and I cower as the eyeless sockets bore into me. Then the figure collapses in on itself, turning back into nothing but shadow. It surrounds me, envelops me in darkness, until I can scarcely breathe and I'm thrashing around and kicking to get away.

"You are a murderer!"

In the midst of the suffocating blackness, I feel my hands dripping with something I know instinctively to be blood.

I scream.

And then I awake, panting, drenched in sweat, to find myself in my berth in one of the Telerin ships. It was only a dream, after all, and I am safely on my way to Middle-earth. Relief, sudden and sweet, courses through me.

The door suddenly opens, and through instinct I whip out my knife. Nelyo's eyes meet mine. "I thought I heard a... scream," he says, ignoring the blade in my hand. "Are you well, Father?"

"I'm fine," I mutter. "Leave me alone."

But as Nelyo shuts the door and I lie down, the hollow voice echoes again in my head.

 _Murderer..._

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 **This is probably the creepiest thing I've ever written. Anyway, please let me know what you think!**


	7. On the Brink

**To anthi35 (guest): Thank you! That's a good idea. Perhaps I'll incorporate it into a future drabble. :)**

 **...No reviews for the last drabble? I hope that changes soon... ;)**

 **Anyway, I'm like totally certain that the character in this one is obvious to Silmarillion fans, even though she's never explicitly identified. Enjoy!**

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 **#51: On the Brink**

There is blood everywhere, so much blood. I'm running through a darkened corridor, but even there the horrible scent follows me.

We should have known the wrath of the sons of Fëanor would find us sooner or later. How could I have been so blind? But this Jewel I have around my neck - I must save it at all costs. At least they will not have that, no matter what else they've taken from me today.

A sob clutches my throat, and I swallow hard, my breath coming in ragged gasps. My little boys have no chance at all among these killers. I don't know where the twins are, and I can only imagine the fear they must be experiencing, if they are not already- already- I can't finish the thought. It hurts too much.

Behind me, growing ever closer, are about twenty of the Fëanorians' servants. I can hear their footsteps and their cries as they draw near.

All hope is gone for me. I only wish to keep the jewel from the cruel sons of Fëanor. I was forced into this corridor by my pursuers, and I know already that it's practically a dead end. Half sobbing, I clutch the holy gem, its glow lighting my way. The door can't be far now. "Eru, help me," I breathe, and keep running.

A moment later I see the door. Desperately I slam into it, fumble with the knob, and burst out into blinding sunlight. (Strange how the sun can continue to shine on a day like this, when all I love and live for has been torn away.)

I'm on a white stone balcony that's built by the edge of a cliff. A salt breeze stings my eyes and whips my hair back, and I can hear the surf pounding on the cliff base thirty feet below. I slam the hall door behind me, hard, and hope it buys me a second of time.

I dart over to the railing, my sandaled feet slapping on the marble blocks. The sea is rough and unforgiving, stretching away to the horizon in vast blue swells, and for a fraction of a second I hesitate, hold myself back.

But the door is suddenly thrown open behind me and soldiers pour out, shouting commands. I have no more time to second-guess my decision. I leap up onto the stone railing. For an instant I stand there, on the brink, clutching the Silmaril on its chain, while the world seems to recede around me. I view it through a trembling lens of tears.

"Eru, protect my boys," I sob, and fling myself into nothingness.


	8. Falling

**Continuation of the last drabble.**

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 **#61: Falling**

I'm falling, twisting through empty air, and wind is rushing past my ears as I draw closer to the water below. But strangely, I'm almost calm, now that there is no turning back.

I still have the Silmaril clenched in my sweaty hands as it dangles from its chain, and before I realize it a bitter, almost gleeful smile twists my lips among the tear-tracks trailing down my face. What those sons of Fëanor wouldn't have given to get their bloodstained hands on this jewel. And now they will never have it.

The ocean may be my grave, but it will be the end for this gem as well. And those Fëanorions can weep tears of blood for all I care, but they will never, never have it back.

I have made sure of that.

Eärendil would be proud.

I plunge almost headfirst into the cold depths, my hair tangling around my face like black seaweed. The speed of my fall sends me many feet under, the water chilling my blood, chilling my bones. I thrash and kick to turn myself upright, and by the time I manage to fight my way to the surface, I'm almost out of air. Gasping for breath, I breach and breathe deeply, yanking my waterlogged hair back out of my face.

And then, still breathing hard, I maneuver to float on my back and wait for the inevitable. I can see the cliff above me, but there is no way I can make it to shore - the nearest reedy beach is several miles away, and the current is pulling me out to sea. I won't survive long.

At that thought, reality slams into me again like a physical blow, and I shiver in despair. I can barely cry for the saltwater already in my eyes, but I'm shaking all over with shock and the cold seeping into me.

 _Please, Eru, please..._

For what am I praying? A swift end? Rescue? I know not. I am alone on the empty sea.


	9. I Am Flying!

**It's been a year and three days since I last posted a drabble. ._. I'm pathetic. Sorry, guys! (Though you probably weren't dying of anticipation.)**

 **This is (probably) the final Elwing drabble. I think parts of this might come across as somewhat comical, but honestly, turning into a bird is a pretty unusual event, even in Middle-earth. XD I wrote it as seriously as possible. Also, I'm not sure how much Elwing knew about her husband's prior intent to reach Valinor, so, yeah.**

 **Word limits are hard to deal with. I'm always knocking the limit with these, and that's after whittling them down.**

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 **#62: I Am Flying!**

I know that in reality it has only been moments, but time is stretching eternal, like the sea, like the cold, like the relentless _thump thump thump_ of my heart. My hands and feet are growing numb and useless. A wave swamps me, and I choke on saltwater, coughing and spitting to clear my lungs. The ocean is getting rougher. How much more time can I have left?

 _Please just let it end_.

A bigger wave than any I've seen comes into view. Automatically, I take a deep breath and brace myself; my vision's so blurred with stinging salt that for a second it actually looks as though there's the form of a person in the wave.

But before it can crash over me, I begin to rise, borne up on a new wave crest. The wave moves higher, higher, lifting me unnaturally, and in spite of myself, something like hope springs in my breast. Is it-

A voice speaks, calm and sonorous, and the Silmaril about my neck flickers with white radiance. "Do not be afraid, Elwing."

Can it really be the Lord of Waters himself? Before I can say anything, there's a sudden tingling, on my torso at first but then spreading outward, all over my arms and legs and face. It's such a peculiar change from the wet cold, but not painful. What's happening? I lift my arms up and find suddenly that they aren't arms at all.

Wings. Valar, I have _wings_.

And... and... oh, Valar, I'm a _bird_. Legs and feathers and everything. A _bird_. I try to say something, but it comes out only as a muffled squeak.

"Do not be afraid," the voice repeats. "It is I, Ulmo. Fly. Seek to the West and find your husband. Therein lies the only hope for all of Arda."

Then the wave in front of me melts harmlessly into the sea, and the wave bearing me up does the same.

Is this possible? I examine my body - it truly is that of a bird. Strangely, this suddenly becomes of minor importance in the face of something larger: I have a task now, given to me by Ulmo himself. But- if I can find Eärendil, how are we to set things right? Does Ulmo... does he mean for us to approach... the Valar?

Elrond and Elros's small faces appear before my eyes as if they're really there in front of me, and something inside twists and hardens all over again. Come what may, I must do this. For them. And that means finding Eärendil and fulfilling the task Ulmo has appointed.

Experimentally, I flap my wings, and in a moment, without even knowing how, I soar above the tossing waves. The feeling of flight is indescribable, and it might bring me joy if not for the heavy weight already on my soul.

I linger a moment in the air, looking back one last time at the cliffs in the distance. Then, resolutely, I turn westward.


	10. Wounds

**#44: Wounds**

I've tried so hard to forget. To move on.

Sometimes I almost succeed, only to have the memories flare again and burn into my very soul. Even now... even now I can hear the clang of steel and screams of the dying, taste the rawness of desperation on the air. Faces, blurring, panicked. Blood running down my armor, not all of it my own. They'll kill us all _and_ have the Silmaril, and there's _nothing_ I can do...

...

 _Stop._

I shut my eyes, clench my fists white.

 _It's over._

 _Focus._

 _Breathe._

They say that time heals all wounds.

Not all.

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 **100 words exactly, according to the online word counter I use.**

 **Could be either the Second or Third Kinslaying. I deliberately left it ambiguous.**


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